


Chekhov's Bed

by qwertygal



Category: Timeless (TV 2016)
Genre: Episode: s02e03 Hollywoodland, Speculative based on promos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-27
Updated: 2020-03-27
Packaged: 2021-03-01 00:15:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23335984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwertygal/pseuds/qwertygal
Summary: She smiled, patting his arm. "I know. It just seems like a crime, to waste a bed like this."Older fic - a Hollywoodland speculative one-shot based on the NBC and Global TV promos for S2E3
Relationships: Wyatt Logan/Lucy Preston
Comments: 8
Kudos: 34





	Chekhov's Bed

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slowly adding some of my older fics here at AO3, and with the 2nd anniversary of Hollywoodland and that amazing LiveStream of the ep happening earlier this week, I thought I'd post this one! It was written as a speculative fic - written before the episode aired, and based only on NBC and GlobalTV promos for the ep
> 
> Hope you enjoy! And if you read it 2 years ago, hope you enjoy again!
> 
> \----  
> Original Author's Notes:
> 
> A little speculation one-shot based on the TV promos for S2E3—both from NBC and Global. No other spoilers. But please note that the Global promo contains several scene snippets not in the NBC one, so if you are spoiler-free except for NBC—you might want to steer clear of this story, just in case!
> 
> A huge thank you to OnceUponAWhim for all your encouragement with this one!
> 
> Written quickly and without extra-careful proofing in order to get this thing posted today—my apologies for any syntax jumblings, spelling mishaps, or word choice confusions!  
> \-----

"This house is insane."

Lucy tossed a smile over her shoulder at Wyatt's remark. "That's one word for it. Rufus said they had rooms for us down this hall?"

"That's what he said. Hopefully he's having some luck on the, uh, wardrobe procurement side of things."

She grimaced. "Now we're hardened car thieves _and_ clothing pilferers. The cars," she wrapped her arm around his, because, well—at this point—why the hell not? "Stealing the cars kind of felt glamourous….the clothing seems….less so."

She smiled again as he barked a laugh in response. She loved the sound of that laugh. It could chase away….a lot of things.

"At least we know the rooms in this house will be bigger than in the bunker."

"Don't get your hopes up. Remember the story Rufus made up for us—they think we're the entertainment. I don't think William Randolph Hearst saves his best rooms for the non-Hollywood elite entertainers."

"I'm still not ready to forgive Rufus for that cover story, by the way."

"That we're singers?"

"I can't sing!"

"Nobody's gonna ask you to sing." She squeezed his arm, and reveled for a moment at the warm smile he gave her in return. _Get your head in the game, Preston—on the mission, remember?_ They had come to the end of the hall. "Is this it?" she motioned to the doorway.

He shrugged, "He said at the end of the hall." He released her arm, and made a sweeping bow toward the door, "After you."

She swung the door open and stepped in. "Wyatt—look at this." she moved further into the room, taking in her surroundings, looking at the ceilings, the windows, the fireplace….the everything. "This can't be right-This place is amazing—look at the mouldings, and the floors—"

She cut her reverie short, realizing she hadn't heard anything from Wyatt. She turned, to see him circling the room as well—but for a very different reason. She shook her head, "I'm pretty sure Rittenhouse hasn't booby-trapped one of Hearst's bedrooms Wyatt."

He held his hand up to her, and finished his sweep, looking behind draperies, under furniture, in closets, until finally he came to stand in front of her. Their eyes met.

"I think you're right, ma'am."

She felt her cheeks colour. _Seriously Lucy? That was a perfectly innocent statement he just made_. Things had been—interesting between them, in the forty-eight hours since returning from 1955 South Carolina. Between Lifeboat tweaking, Rittenhouse manifesto studying, and very nosey roommates—they'd found very little time alone together. Which meant they hadn't really been able to talk. There had been just the one conversation—about her mother….and about her. She'd finally managed to convince herself that nothing good came from holding back from him about her experiences during the six weeks she was missing. If he hadn't gone running the moment he learned she was Rittenhouse royalty, she figured a few more details wouldn't hurt. She hadn't even meant to tell him that much at first—she just wanted to reassure him that she was okay—but the more she talked, the more she _wanted_ to talk. And he'd been _there_ and had been patient—such a good listener, _and looking damn fine_ , her inner voice reminded her. _He managed to make even cold-war bunker couture look good_. And, as she talked, she recognized that she had started to feel a little bit better about things. Then there had been _that moment_ —that moment when they both knew it was time to turn the conversation to other things, happier things, what was going on between them kind of things…. And then every single resident of the damn bunker had walked in, en masse. And that had been that. So no discussion….and no kissing. And the lack of discussion was maddening—and wonderful all at the same time. Because until they talked—she couldn't really know….couldn't really know what he was thinking of her, of _them_. So it was maddening because it meant no verbal confirmation of any of the things he'd been saying lately with his eyes….and his body. But it was wonderful because it also meant there had been no possibility of any pesky _realities_ invading her romanticized happy-thoughts. No possibility of 'I really like you Luce, but I have a problem with your Mother being mastermind of a shadow-government bent on world domination'. No possibility of 'I really like you Luce, but I'm not ready for this.' She realized with a start that he was still staring at her.

"You're right about the room," he said. She supposed he thought she didn't understand—which maybe she didn't, fully, since her mind was a million other places than discussing the fact that the room had not been booby-trapped. And he was still staring at her. And what was she supposed to do now? _Kiss him, you idiot_! Instead, she turned, walking back toward the back of the room. After all, they were on a mission. _Not like that fact concerned either of us in that smuggler's compartment_. She turned back to him slightly, gauging his mood, his interest….and he was still looking at her, intently.

"Rufus might be a while finding us clothes for tonight." She stepped closer to the bed, admiring the wood work. "Look at this bed! After spending nights in that crummy cot….." she turned her gaze back to him, realizing that he had closed the distance between them much faster than she had expected, and was now standing close enough she could feel heat radiating off him.

"It's a nice bed," he nodded his head. "Though—if we're successful at blocking the blackmail attempt at this party thing….we'll be back sleeping in those cots again tonight."

She smiled, patting his arm. "I know. It just seems like a crime, to waste a bed like this." She looked up at him again, and he took another step closer to her. There it was again—that _thing_ that was always there these days, whenever he stood this close. That feeling like all the air had disappeared, but had been replaced by something fuller—something in motion—charged particles zinging and zapping—

She tore her gaze from his sparkling eyes and returned it to the bed. In a moment of impulse, she ran her hand across the bed spread, turning her head back toward him and giving a wink. _Apparently, I'm feeling bold_.

"You realize we're alone—right? It feels strange….after all that quality team-building time we get in that bunker."

She watched as a lazy grin spread across his face, as he lightly ran his hand down her arm. "You are right, we are alone."

The door flew open, "Your wardrobe procurement agent has got some good stuff guys!"

She mentally cursed as Wyatt took a giant step backward, and the space between them was emptied of the magic….and filled again with regular air.

Rufus' attention seemed to be on the wardrobe bags in his arms—since there hadn't been so much as a good-natured tease, she presumed he hadn't noticed their proximity at his entry.

"You know," Rufus continued, "I am really getting to like this whole invisible thing."

"Nice monkey suit," said Wyatt, opening the bag he'd taken from Rufus. "Are we sure this party is going to be worth it?"

Lucy sighed, reaching out to accept her bag. "Hedy says this is where that man is going to be tonight. If he's going to blackmail Hearst—force him to sell the papers—it seems likely that this is where it's going to happen—" she trailed off, suddenly transfixed by the dress in her bag.

"Is it okay?" asked Rufus. "There were lots there; I can get something different, if it's a problem?"

She ran her hand along the gold. It _couldn't_ be, could it?

"Luce?" asked Wyatt.

She looked up. "No—it's perfect. I was just….thinking."

"Of course you were," said Wyatt, throwing her a gentle grin.

"'Bout what?" asked Rufus.

"'Bout nothing," she said. "Let's get changed—get ready for this soiree—and thwart the blackmail scheme from the future." Because she was _not_ going to tell him-wasn't going to tell either of them—about the bizarre conversation she'd had with Jiya the day before. When Jiya had asked if she'd ever seen the movie Philadelphia Story. She'd replied eagerly—she loved that movie. And then Jiya had asked if she'd ever owned a dress that looked like Hepburn's. When she'd told her no, Jiya had smiled wickedly at her, and told her she should consider getting one, that she'd enjoy wearing it, and that she'd enjoy it even more when it came off. Then she had winked, and walked away, without another word.

* * *

Wyatt grasped his glass of champagne as he returned to the main room—looking for any splash of red hair in the crowd that could indicate Emma was here. He found a spot in the foyer. Raised slightly, it gave him a good view of the party-goers mingling in the large room. Nothing. _Where was she_? The three of them had split up close to an hour ago to try to locate her—and there'd been no signal from the others indicating any kind of success. He scanned the room again—noting that Rufus had just walked through the doorway on the far side. He caught his eye—Rufus shook his head. Still nothing. Rufus shrugged then, and walked back outside, presumably walking the perimeter of the gardens again.

He sighed, and took a sip of the champagne. So far….the party was a total bust. No Rittenhouse sleeper agent. No Emma. And damn if Hearst's publicist hadn't cornered him three times already—shooting down Lucy's promise by asking him to sing for the partiers….every time. He'd been able to put him off after each request, but it was getting harder to come up with viable excuses….

He spun around, reaching for his weapon as he felt someone bump into his side—but it was just a reveler….a very drunk reveler. He forced his body to calm, waited for the surge of adrenaline to pass. It was then he noticed that he had slopped champagne onto his jacket. _Great. Apparently you can dress me up but you can't take me anywhere_. He swiped at the rivulet of bubbly making its way down his lapel. Rufus had really outdone himself with the clothes—had to be the most expensive item of clothing he'd ever worn. And Lucy in that dress…. He shook his head, and returned to scanning the room for signs of Emma. But apparently his mind had other ideas, and he was soon thinking about her again. She looked great in almost anything—but that dress! And she was happier, more like herself again, too—which meant some of the over-riding anxiety that had been squeezing at his heart since they had returned from 1918 and she had insisted she was _fine_ —was slowly relaxing its grip on him. She was still a long way from fine….but she was talking again, and letting him in….and he knew from his own experiences with trauma that it would get better from here. He set the glass down on a console table and started walking down the hall to the back of the house, suddenly needing to find her, to see her.

He moved past the main dining room, ducking in only long enough to see that she wasn't there, and then continued toward the conservatory. They needed to talk some more. Not about trauma this time—but about them. Rufus had said he loved her….and the more he thought about it….the more he suspected it was true. The way he had felt, when she was missing. The way his heart ached for every hurt inflicted on her by her whacked-out family…. The way her presence could chase away his own demons. His desperate need to protect her—to make things good for her….what was that, if not love? And yet, it was different than before….all those years ago. It had crept up on him—no lightning bolt from the sky….just a slow and steady pressure, a warmth, building in his soul.

"Wyatt?"

He spun around; she was there, skirts in hand, trotting towards him.

"Anything?" she asked.

"What?" _oh right, the mission_. "No—no sign of Emma."

She shook her head at him, reaching his side. "Me neither. I don't understand—this should have been their target—it's what made sense."

"Miss Preston, Mr. Logan!" a voice called out from behind them. Wyatt cringed. He knew that voice. _Hearst's publicist_. He gave a dramatic sigh, mostly for Lucy's benefit. And it worked, because she gave the most delightful little giggle….

"Yes, Mr. Sharpe," he turned toward the man.

"So glad I found you. Some of the guests are getting restless; we need to get things going again. Will the two of you perform?"

Lucy shook her head from beside him. _Crap_.

"Well," he began, "We….we would love to….but my voice is—" he coughed, "—off tonight….I wouldn't want to put it under any more pressure."

The publicist's eyebrows drew together in annoyance. This could get bad….after all, they were only invited here because they were singers….he suspected it was considered bad form for invited singers to refuse to sing. He glanced over a Lucy, who raised an eyebrow at him. She was stunning—practically glowing in that dress and in this lighting….and that was when inspiration struck.

"So no, Mr. Sharpe, I'm not going to be able to sing this evening. But Lucy," he threw his arm around her shoulder, squeezing her near, then guiding her to step in front of him. "Lucy has been wanting to sing all night."

"What?" she looked back at him, eyes incredulous.

"Excellent!" said Mr. Sharpe, with a clap of his hands. "Let's go down to the conservatory—there's a piano there, and the room opens onto the garden, so more guests can hear. I'll get the piano player…." He continued prattling on as he sped down the hall.

Lucy glared at him. He shrugged, feeling a little sheepish….yet not at all sorry.

"Well, one of us was going to have to….and I'm pretty sure I would have blown our cover pretty badly. Besides," he ushered her down the hall, his hand at the small of her back. He leaned in, whispering just for her, "I want to hear my band-girl sing….find out what all this fuss is about."

She shook her head at him again, but there was a warmth in her small smile, and a glimmer of excitement in her statement, "Okay….but it's been a long time."

The conservatory was larger than he expected….and the mingling guests there and in the garden were a much larger group than he had expected. Lucy shot him a nervous glance, he grinned at her, and motioned her to follow Sharpe, who had grasped her hand, and was practically pulling her toward the piano.

She bent toward the pianist—he couldn't hear what they were saying. She turned then, facing the crowd, as conversation lulled to a stop, and the party-goers turned to watch her expectantly. She looked nervous. Wyatt flashed her a broad smile—hoping through it to transmit some confidence to her. She started….slowly….not at all comfortable….he sought out her eyes and, when they connected he mouthed 'you got this baby doll'. And then it happened. Some more Lucy magic. She smiled, and transformed before his eyes. No longer nervous, she turned on a stage-presence that he'd never imagined from her before, as she turned to the pianist with a confident nod.

"Hit it, Buster!"

She was magnificent. And as she sang, her voice carrying through the room and out into the garden, but her eyes glued only to him….singing about love only for him….it was as though, in that moment, a million volts of electricity coursed through him.

_And there was the lightning bolt….or, more specifically….about a thousand of them_.

Watching her bring the song to its close, there was suddenly a sting of tears in his eyes. Her words came back to him then, 'But it's been a long time'. And it certainly had. But that didn't make her voice any weaker….and it didn't make his feelings any lesser….if anything it was stronger….more….complex….more….. And he supposed he'd known it, all along. _And damn, did they ever have to have a talk_.

The applause was loud as she stepped away from the piano—moving through the crowd to launch herself into his arms. "That was amazing," he murmured in her hair. "You're amazing," he added, as she released him from the hug. Just before stepping back he dipped and kissed her cheek.

She laughed then—an even better form of music, if you asked him—and looked back toward the piano.

"Actually a little rusty….but it all worked out."

"You call that rusty? It's a _really_ good thing you didn't make me sing. You were….glowing, up there."

"Glowing?" she asked.

"Yeah," he said, "Well, you're always glowing….to me."

She smiled at him shyly, and stepped closer. "I am?"

He put his hands on her shoulders, tugging her gently nearer….

When Rufus ran through the garden doors.

"Found you guys."

Wyatt squeezed his eyes shut, and released Lucy's shoulders. "Is it Rittenhouse?"

"No—absolutely no sign of them. But I just heard that Hearst has retired for the night—gone to his private rooms."

"But then," Lucy said, "How can Rittenhouse talk to him tonight."

"That's just it—whenever this conversation is going to go down….well it obviously isn't tonight." Rufus ran his hand across his head, then took in the room—seeming to notice the piano, the audience, Lucy's flushed cheeks….for the first time. "Wait—was that….was that _you_ singing?"

Wyatt grinned. "Yeah—she was amazing."

When I was coming along the south wall of the house I heard _someone_ singing….I never thought….ah man, I miss everything!"

Mr. Sharpe and the pianist approached at that moment. "Miss Preston," began Mr. Sharpe, some of the guests would like to speak to you," he motioned toward the far side of the room.

"Go ahead, Luce," Wyatt nodded in that direction, "Don't want to let your adoring fans down." He laughed—she looked surprised.

"Oh…..ah….okay," and she allowed Mr. Sharpe and the piano player to guide her to the waiting circle of party-goers. She glanced back briefly, and Wyatt gave her a thumbs up.

"Well now," Rufus began. Wyatt pulled his attention back from Lucy, who was now shaking hands with an older gentleman at the other side of the room, and looked at his friend.

"What?"

"Are you actually going to try and deny," he motioned between Wyatt and Lucy, "Any of this, anymore?"

He shook his head. _Yet he probably should talk to Lucy first…._ "I'm not denying anything."

Rufus' face looked stunned.

"But I'm not admitting to anything either….not right now."

"But you're not denying."

"No."

"Ahhhh…..that's awesome."

Wyatt shook his head again at his friend, and took a quick glance back at Lucy. _Time to change the subject_. "So….what're we going to do about Rittenhouse. We can't very well search the whole city looking for them tonight."

"Nope….we can't. So, I suggest we all take advantage of sleeping quarters without snoring roommates…..well, at least _I_ won't have a snoring roommate….and we all try to get some sleep." He looked at him, thoughtfully. "Actually, maybe you'd prefer it if you two _didn't_ get any sleep…."

"Rufus," he said, adding a warning tone. But then he smiled softly. "What's your room like—you should see the size of the one they put us in….think it was some kind of mistake."

Rufus laughed. "Nope—no mistake."

"What?"

"Earlier, when our host was asking me about my poetry and I was telling him about my friends….the great singing duo….I told him that you two were celebrating tonight. He said he'd put you in his best suite, I didn't even have to specify what you were celebrating."

"Wait, so….you did that?"

He grinned broadly at him. "Just consider it my gift to you. But remember—there must be celebrating. Don't make me a liar. I need celebration. Not that I want to hear about it….and I certainly don't want to see it—not any of it…. But, you two….you two deserve this.

He glanced back at Lucy again, then clapped Rufus on the shoulder. "Thanks, man."

He shrugged, "After all—what are time travelling friends for? Besides, I can think of a few ways you could return the favour, once we're back in that bunker."

He grinned at him—"You got it. I think I could arrange something….maybe even find a way to get the doors to lock."

"All right," Rufus nodded over to where a small crowd had formed around Lucy. I'm going to say goodnight to our diva girl over there—we'll figure out the Rittenhouse crap in the morning."

He chuckled, "'Night Rufus…..and thank you."

"You have a good night," he sauntered over to join the crowd.

* * *

He stared at the play of the light from the lamp posts on the water. The way the light would sparkle in the periphery of his vision, and then, just as he tried to focus on it, would move elsewhere, until the sparkles were back on the periphery of his vision again—and the cycle would repeat. It was like his own feelings, he mused. For so long—he had _known_. He had known what this was he felt for Lucy….but for some reason, any time he stopped to try to examine it—those feelings had skittered away from him. And when he was sure of his feelings? Those were the times he wasn't thinking at all….in the bunker, when she'd pulled his face toward her….or in that smuggler's trunk.

And what about tonight? Was it to be reckless action without thinking again? But it couldn't be—Lucy deserved more. And besides which –now, when he stopped to focus on those feelings—they didn't skitter away any more. They were clear, and steady, and real. Like the glow from the lamppost. And now when he thought about these things—about her—about his love for her—it didn't make things confusing or anxiety-provoking. It just felt….right….real….and where he needed to be. _She should be out here soon_. He glanced back at the doors to their shared room, and then looked back at the water. There was a sense of anticipation building in him—but it wasn't anxious, it was confident….and filled with wonderment. And when was the last time he had felt that?

"Wyatt?" her voice floated from somewhere behind him.

"Out here," he said, "The garden doors behind the couch thing."

"The setee," she corrected lightly.

He felt her coming nearer.

"I didn't even realize that they opened before—oh my gosh-Wyatt!"

He smiled at the joy in her voice as she was no doubt getting her first glance at the pool scene outside the door.

"Kind of takes your breath away, doesn't it?" he asked her, mentally adding _like you do to me_.

"Wow," she whispered, drawing alongside him.

He allowed himself to really look at her then—shoes grasped in her hands, skirts pooling on the ground once she released them from her grasp—and face shining with happiness. He ran his eyes over her face—her bright eyes, upturned lips, smooth cheeks begging to be touched—he was desperate to memorize _everything_ about this evening.

They stood in silence for a moment like that—her staring out over the water, him staring at her. Then she turned slightly, meeting his gaze with a smouldering stare of her own.

"Alone again," she whispered.

He nodded slightly. _Now or never_ , he figured. "Luce….I'm sorry for the way I've been….vague about things lately."

"Vague?"

"Vague. I mean….even before….everything….that conversation at Mason Industries….when I talked about possibilities? I should have been braver—I should have been able to say what I really wanted to say."

She reached for his hand, grasping it lightly, then releasing it again. "And what was that."

He ducked his head, then met her gaze again. _Where did he even begin_? But she was here, and she was real….this was real….and he had to say something.

"You saved my life, you know."

She pulled her head back slightly—that didn't appear to be what she had expected him to say. She pulled her facial expression back to something appearing close to neutral, and gave a wave of her hand. "A few times actually, but who's counting."

"No," he laughed, "That's not what I mean." He shoved his hands in his pockets, tipping his head to the side to hold her gaze—drinking her in.

"You know why I took this assignment?"

She shrugged slightly, never breaking eye contact, yet chewing slightly at her bottom lip. He needed to explain, to get to the point….

"Because it was dangerous. I stopped caring. Not anymore."

Her eyes were suddenly wet with emotion. He reached out, finally cupping her cheek. She leaned into him, as he stroked circles with his thumb on her soft skin.

"And I am so….grateful for you, Luce. You showed me that there was still a reason to _live_ Lucy—still things in this world to strive for. Still….still joy and wonder….and lightning bolts from the sky. I want to live because of you—I care now because of you….because I care….about you."

She placed her hand against his, holding it in place as she turned her head to kiss the inside of his palm, and then intertwined their fingers, dropping their hands between them, and stepping closer to him. "It was the same for me….when I thought you were gone….I…." she trailed off, then smiled at him shyly. "Since this whole thing began—you've been there for me….my rock….someone to lean on….even when I pretend I don't need to lean on anything. I don't think—" she looked at the water for a moment, then back at him. "No, I _know_ that no one has ever been this important to me….filled my thoughts….like you do."

"I fill your thoughts?" he smirked. "What kind of thoughts are we talking?"

She batted at his arm playfully.

He turned serious for a moment, "You know it's okay to lean on people though, right? Nobody gets through all of this alone."

"I know," she whispered. "And I don't mean to shut you out….when I don't want to talk. But the more I talk about it—my mother, Rittenhouse—the more I talk about it, the more it becomes real."

"But you started talking to me….before, in the bunker."

"I know, and I'd like to talk more….I'd like us _both_ to talk more….there are things you should talk more about too."

He nodded. "Agreed. And if it makes things real….maybe that's a good thing. Maybe it means by talking….we can both start to move on—we can help each other with that….do it together."

"Okay."

"But not tonight."

She quirked an eyebrow at him.

"If talking about things can make them real….then I think tonight should be reserved for….talking about us."

"About us," she echoed.

She turned, so that they were facing each other, and he grasped her other hand. He shook his head slightly, "You know, on that stage tonight? You were amazing—you were glowing. But like I said before….that's the thing….to me, you always glow. And you make me glow….on the inside….when I'm around you."

"Is that a good thing?"

He nodded. "It's—a joy, a wonder….and I'm not very good at talking about these things."

"You're doing pretty well." She squeezed his hand. "So….in that car, in the trunk, in Darlington…."

"Yeah."

"You talked about that open road."

He nodded again, feeling a swell of emotion rise into his throat from his chest.

"I think….I think I'm ready for that, that I want that. To move on from living my life for my mother….to live for _me_. And I want….I hope….that we can do that together." She released his hands, taking a single step back.

He shoved his hands in his pockets again, shifting his weight slightly between his feet. "There was other stuff going on in that trunk, too."

"I remember."

He reached out to her again, running his hand down her arm. "You….you really threw me for a loop Preston, you know that?"

She arched an eyebrow at him, again.

"This….this wasn't in my plans….I wasn't supposed to feel….anything….again."

She chewed at her lower lip. Her eyes driving him forward in his confession.

"Tonight—I was….trying to figure it all out. Even though I've truly known….known for so long Lucy….but I was afraid. Afraid and confused and I couldn't figure out how to tell you—I didn't want to do anything to hurt you—"

"Oh." she cut him off. "Oh," she said again, softer this time.

He stared as her face fell….her eyes lost their lustre….and he could practically _see_ her start building that wall between the two of them again. _What had just happened?_

She spun around, and started marching back toward the room.

"Lucy!"

"It's okay Wyatt," she was still walking, and he rushed to keep up with her. "You're off the hook….you don't have to tell me. I'll say it for you. You care for me—I saved your life, apparently—but you're afraid because you're still not ready for this."

She had paused now, her back still to him, she was staring at the bed.

"No, Lucy—that's not what I—" crossing to her side in two quick strides, he reached for her arm, tugging her around to face him. There were tears in her eyes. _Shit_. He had to fix this.

"That's not what I meant….not by a long shot. I am ready….I'm ready for it all—the road travelled together. I was confused because I was processing these…. _feelings_ that I hadn't felt in so long—that I didn't think I'd ever feel again….. And maybe I'm a little slow with figuring this stuff out….but Lucy…." he trailed off, releasing his grip on her arm. "I've fallen in love with you….I love you."

She stared at him for a beat—and he wasn't sure it that look on her face was a good thing, or a bad thing….. and then she was there—kissing him….and it was everything. Once his mind caught up with the reality of the situation he was kissing her back, taking her in his arms, cradling her head with his hand. Besides the attraction and the warmth and the feeling of 'rightness' that was everywhere in his whirling head during that kiss—what nearly knocked him over….made him weak in the knees—was the overriding joy that coursed through him. Joy for having her with him, joy for being hers—having her return everything he was feeling….and joy at the prospect of their future together. He turned her slowly in a circle, deepening the kiss….until they both had to come up for air.

She was flushed and trembling—he could see that joy again, mirrored back at him in her eyes. She laughed then, a bright and lilting giggle that brought him back to earlier that night—watching her sing, feeling that electricity.

"I love you too. And I think I've known too—for a long time. But I didn't know….or recognize…. Wyatt, you make me feel things I thought I'd never feel—that I told myself I didn't believe in. You make me feel the lightning bolt.

He laughed then, lifting her up and kissing her again—spinning them around and around until they hit the side of the bed. She laughed against his lips, and he pulled back slightly, taking in the sight of her, again. He released her head, and traced his fingertips down the side of her face.

"You're my everything, baby doll" he whispered on a sigh.

"And you're mine, sweetheart." She brought her hands up to frame his face, tugging him gently downward until she could place a chaste kiss on his forehead….on his cheek….and then found his lips again, in a kiss of searing passion that sent him reeling. He lifted her in his embrace, setting her gently on the bed behind them.

She broke the kiss—bringing her hand up to trace her thumb across his lower lip. "It's a nice bed." she said.

He nodded, "Shame to let a nice bed like this go to waste."

"Seems like a crime…." her fingers danced down his neck, opening the button at the top of his shirt—then his mind nearly shorted-out as he felt the warmth of her hand slide firmly over his shoulders. She hooked her baby fingers under his suspenders, pulling both sides down over his arms in unison. "You realize we're alone—right?" she whispered in his ear.

He pulled his head back just far enough to meet her eyes now ablaze, and he felt a smirk spread across his face. "You are right, we are alone."

"And this time," she said, moving her fingers to work on the next button of his shirt. "This time, I locked the door."

"Smart woman," he said, his hands grasping at her hips to push her further back on the bed, toeing off his shoes as he knelt beside her.

"Don't you forget it," she said, as she reached up to his shoulders and pulled him down to her—their lips meeting again in a kiss of passion….and of promise.

A promise of an open road travelled together.

**Author's Note:**

> For any not familiar with the phrase, the title is a play on the concept of "Chekhov's Gun". The concept is that everything that is introduced in a story must have a function. It comes from Anton Chekhov's famous writing advice, "If in the first act you have hung a pistol on the wall, then in the following one, it should be fired. Otherwise, don't put it there."
> 
> Before the season started, when NBC released their longer promo containing the wide-angle shot showing that there was a bed in that room where they kissed—well it just seemed to me that the bed needed to be used!


End file.
